LEROY

It was right after the rent-a-cop—
with his fine-tuned
sense of self-preservation
made his tattooed self scarce,
that they came on the court,
so loose-limbed
you imagined them melting
in the August heat.
Yet their procession
seemed as inevitable as the tide.

I hadn’t realized I was still dribbling
until Leroy was on me—
face to face.
I had played b-ball with him
at pick-up games on Stone Avenue.
He was like some sub-atomic particle—
Leroyiam,
always moving.
He was good
and when he went up for a jump shot
I was left defending knees.
Leroy showed me a metal Band-aid box
full of twenty-two shells
and a taped up pistol
as ugly as Brownsville.
He told me—
“I’d stay off the streets tonight.”

Soon after
the draft started
to round up the basketball stars,
the craps addicts,
and the layabouts
from the bowling alley.

Word was
Leroy flushed
his subway token
and took off—
with just his basketball
and his dad’s pay envelope.
They haven’t caught him yet
and the smart money says
they never will.

Perhaps, he will
grow old
and prosperous—
on a court somewhere,
lofting one-hand set shots
over his grandkids’ heads
and catching only net.